“Look at Picasso. O’Neill. Tennessee Williams. Capote. Were these shiny happy people spreading sunshine? No. Only the greatest of personal demons can force you to do powerful work.”
― Marisha Pessl, Night Film
The less you know about me the better. I prefer to be shrouded in mystery, like a screen actress in a 1950s Alfred Hitchcock talkie.
I have no desire to fill these pages with my life story, like an ageing heiress or eccentric film producer.
I am merely here to present you with the streams of consciousness that flow from my pen to paper in a frenetic outpouring of unrestricted musings and gauche considerations.
I will tell you this, however, I was born in a capital city in the 1980s. I believe it was a Tuesday. Full of grace. Not long after my family relocated to a sleepy coastal town where I have spent most of my life.
I write, not because I want to, but because I have to. It is the monster that must be fed, the rage that must be silenced.
In an unrelated note, I have some suspicions I might be related to Swedish royalty, a doctor who fled across the ocean in a tale that is a tantalising enigma.